Paris
by BlackPuma137
Summary: It wasn't strange for them to pick Paris.


**Paris**

_Author's Note: I'm sorry, I really should be working on my other fanfictions, but these Inception and AxA stories are just knocking about in my head and I can't make it stop. PLEASE tell me if you understand what I'm trying to convey here, because it makes sense it my head, but I'm a mad hatter sometimes and I'm not sure if I got to the point like I wanted to. The book I mentioned is a figment of my imagination.  
_

Whether alone or apart, they both jetted off to different jobs constantly. Not just other jobs in France, or even jobs in the United States, but all over Europe, Asia, South America...once or twice in Africa, even once on both the north and south poles.

So when they were deciding where they wanted to live together, they were quite sure why they picked Paris, France. It wasn't surprising for them.

Ariadne had already finished her schooling, and her friends were all off to every corner of the globe. No attachments there other than that of her measly apartment.

Arthur didn't really have any things except a library's worth of books and music collections, all of which were in the U.S.

When they were looking for apartments, ones worthy of their bank accounts, neither were surprised to find that it was minutes away from the warehouse. Literally walking distance.

They didn't visit the warehouse more often than needed, though. More often than not, they simply meandered through the streets of Paris. Within a year, they knew every street in the city without needing a map. They memorized their favorite places, niches, and buildings—which wasn't very hard since they shared all their favorites. That wasn't surprising for them, either.

They weren't surprised to find that they had the same book as a favorite: _Paris Quand Il N'y Pas Le Soleil. _It was a rather beautiful book, after all: murder, mystery, character, passion, romance in Paris after dark. The descriptions of the rolling hills of the countryside, how sweet smell of sunshine and lavender drifting lazily on soft winds. The descriptions were what made it their favorite; how, in Paris, the bright, modern lights washed the older buildings in a gentle sigh. Paris, with hidden niches where lovers can be found embracing each other. Paris, the broken, corroded, rambunctious cobblestones leading to sweet-smelling bakeries and harsh, pungent, savory butcheries. Paris, with the bright shops and gleaming industrial buildings.

A beauty, really. It had character of it's own that could never be replicated.

They weren't surprised to find themselves sighing with relief every time they opened the door to their apartment.

They weren't surprised to find themselves calling the place "home" after just a day.

They weren't surprised, either, to find that things no longer smelled like _her_ or _him_, but _them_ after just a week of things having their places.

This home was a haven for them. A dream in a world that was nothing but a jumble of reality and fake-dreams. It was inspiration, it was bright, it was vibrant, it was absolutely _perfect _for two people who couldn't dream without assistance anymore. It was absolutely _perfect._

It was absolutely perfect, and it was all for them. Just for the two of them. It was where they could pretend that they didn't have problems: running on the bad half the law, faced with having to have something as fantastical as dreams become reality, and most of all, it was where they could be together.

It wasn't surprising that they choose Paris, you see, because of what it was, because of what it meant for them, because it was where they began; it showed that that's all they needed: each other. They needed each other, because otherwise it would have never been perfect like it was now. They would have both disappeared into their work, and never come out like Mal.

They had it perfect because they were together, because they could remind themselves every day of the warehouse down the street and all it's implications, because they could escape into a city that was greater than anything they could imagine.

That's how they knew it was reality. That's how they couldn't go mad in a profession where going made was expected. Even dreams aren't this perfect. Even Limbo isn't this warm.


End file.
